“It’s not my fault.” He meant to scream it at her and then scream it again at the walls of the tower, raising his head, spinning in place, washing the dark stones with his protestations. But all that came out was a weak mumble and his only movement was to drop the pot, the clay breaking sadly on the stones. “It’s not. What am I to do, Moragh?”

She came forward then, her expression strange, relieved. “Do you know the old sally port? Behind the northwest tower?”

Pocket nodded. No one knew the castle better than he did. “Go out there,” Moragh continued, each word more hurried than the one before. “And down the rock until you come to the trees at the base. There will be someone to meet you, but you must hurry. All has been arranged.”

“Arranged?” Pocket asked. “Who is meeting me? Moragh, what? I don’t…you want me to leave?”

“It is the only way now.”

“No…I don’t want to! Surely there is another…why do you want me to go? I don’t understand! What did I do? Are you angry? What did I do?”

She knelt down and took his hand in hers, shaking them with every word. “Listen to me, now! You must go! There is no choice left. Master Bannoch is dead and the smith’s lass is like to follow before nightfall. When that happens…” Her voice clipped in her throat and she looked away for a moment, then swallowed and looked back. “I cannot protect you anymore. I am too old and without Master Bannoch there is no one else here to help me. For your life child, you must go!”

Her fingers squeezed his hands past the point of comfort, but the pain in Pocket’s fingers was nothing compared to that in her eyes. His whole life he had known her face, careworn and tired always, but also strong, full of determination and a stubborn challenge at anything that might attempt to lay her spirits low. But he had never seen her despair, never watched her bend to the sorrow that forever lay scraping under the surface. He would not be the cause of her pain. He owed her that. That and so much more.

So he nodded. “I will go.” He watched her pain worsen and loved her for it.

He felt a brushing at his leg and looked down into Napper’s open face, the natural curiosity reflecting Pocket’s own questions. He scooped the cat up into his arms and hugged him close, breathing deep of the familiar fur. His eyes were growing hot and he had to fight back against the quivers in his chin. He needed to do this quickly or he would never do it at all.

“Would you hold him?” he asked Moragh. “He will follow me if you do not.”